


Drag Your Teeth Across My Chest

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Prompt Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of battle, the King of the North wishes to thank his guard for saving his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag Your Teeth Across My Chest

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [ASOIAF Kinkmeme](asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com) for the prompt based on this picture:
> 
>  

Her entire body aches from battle. She is filthy, her split lip healing but tasting of iron from her blood, and all she wants is to drop into a tub and scrub the scent of death from her skin. Her breeches are ruined, stained with dead men's blood and bits of brain wiped from her ax; she'll need new boots as well, and that is an expense the meager Mormont coffers are not going to bear the cost of well. As she peels the sweat stained tunic from her body, Dacey winces as a pulled muscle in her back protests; there is a long, shallow cut which stretches from her right shoulder to her left hip, the edge of a blade managing to work its way through her leather as she threw herself in front of her king. It is always her first duty - _protect the king, protect the North_ \- but tonight is the first time it has ever brought her real pain.

"You almost died today."

Dacey lifts her head, surprised to see Robb Stark standing at the entrance to her small tent. He is as filthy and battered as she is, a dark bruise shadowing his forehead, and Dacey thinks he looks so much smaller without his armor, more like a boy and less like a king. She doesn't bother lifting her arms to cover her breasts and preserve her modesty; Dacey has never had much modesty to start, and she is not going to feign it now when her arms feel as if they are weighted down with rocks.

"So did you, Your Grace."

Robb slowly moves towards her, wavering unsteadily on his feet, and Dacey feels the instinct to take hold of him, to keep him upright even at a cost to herself. The last thing she expects is for Robb Stark to meet her gaze for only a moment before dropping his forehead to the curve of her shoulder. His breath is hot and moist against her skin, and Dacey is not sure how to respond, isn't certain if he wants comforted or to fuck her. She feels his hands settle on her hips, but he doesn't try to touch her breasts, doesn't slip his hand between her thighs; all he does is breathe tremulously, and Dacey is stunned to feel tears welling in her eyes.

“You saved my life,” the King in the North finally murmurs, and Dacey shivers as his chapped lips brush against the thin skin of her clavicle. “You do not even know me, but you leaped in front of that blade.”

“You are my king; that is all I need to know.”

“No,” he sighs, his nose nudging at the pulse point in her throat. “A person should know who they die for; a crown is not enough. You don't know me, and I do not know you.”

It is a strange statement to make to someone whose nude body you are touching, but Dacey does not point that out to him. “You can tell me about yourself, Your Grace. I would like to know.”

Robb shakes his head again, his russet beard rasping pleasantly against her warming skin. He lifts his head, and Dacey sees desire in his bright, blue eyes, hot and blatant; it surprises her when he does not move to kiss her. Instead he takes her hand and tugs her towards the copper tub; Dacey steps into it, sinking gratefully into the hot water even as it sharply stings the wounds on her body, and she waits. Robb bends down beside the tub, picking up the hard block of soap and a rag, working up a thick lather; Dacey watches with unsure eyes, confused as to what is happening, why her king is not touching her the way men do when their blood is hot from battle.

Dacey sucks air sharply through her nose as Robb gingerly presses the soapy rag to her arm, slowly beginning to scrub the filth from her body. “I am exhausted of talking about myself, Lady Mormont.” He cups water in his hand, letting it run down her arm to rinse away the soap; his voice is softer, more vulnerable, as he asks, “May I call you Dacey?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, Your Grace.”

She hears him exhale with frustration before his hands work with more force against the stubborn dirt clinging to her skin. “Please don't call me that.” Dacey's toes curl beneath the water as the rag slides to her shoulder, moving back and forth across her collarbone in an absentminded caress. “Could you pretend, even for an hour, I am not the king? Could you treat me like a normal man?”

Even though she is not sure she can, Dacey nods; his voice is so raw, aching with something Dacey feels in her own chest but cannot name, and it isn't hard to imagine Robb Stark as someone else when he's attending to her like a servant. Leaning forward, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them, Dacey sighs, “Get in.”

“What?”

“You want me to treat you like a normal man? Well, I'd invite a normal man into the bath with me. Besides,” she adds with a smile, “you stink.”

Dacey notices he blushes as he sheds his clothes, and she wonders if this is the first time he has ever undressed with a woman. There are bruises on his pale skin, including a particularly livid spattering over his ribcage; Dacey takes in the sight of his broad chest, the russet hair which grows around his nipples, thinning out before arrowing thickly beneath his navel towards his cock. His hands flutter nervously over his erection, as if to cover it, and it is so sweetly innocent, she chuckles as he steps over the rim.

“You'll need bigger hands if you wish to hide,” she can't help but tease. His blush deepens as he quickly sits, sending water splashing over the sides as he studiously avoids her gaze. Passing him the soapy rag, Dacey feels his hand shake as she quips, “And you haven't anything to be embarrassed about. It's a nice cock.”

He is as crimson as the blood they both spilled on the battlefield, and Dacey takes pleasure in the way he cannot quite meet her gaze as he fumbles with the rag, scrubbing his arms with vigor. She wishes she could rest back against the edge of the tub, but her back still stings from the steel which opened it; instead she shifts up onto her knees, intending to dip her head back into the water to wash her soiled hair, when she notices the way Robb is eying her breasts. Dacey lets him look, unconcerned; if she was Jorelle, she'd curse him for it, but men have been staring at her teats since they first appeared when she was two-and-ten. She'll take Robb Stark's silent admiration over another man's grasping hands any day.

“You're very pretty,” he chokes out as she soaps her hair, his eyes wide and hungry. “I'm sure men tell you that all the time - “

“Not really.” Carefully working the suds from her hair, she admits, “Most men don't quite know what to make of me.”

“Men on Bear Island must be blind then.” Dropping his gaze, twisting the rag with anxious hands, he ventures, “Do you have someone at home?”

“I would be quite the disloyal lover if I did and still had you get into this tub, wouldn't I?” She reaches for the rag, wetting it before pressing it to his chest, catching him by surprise. His breath hitches as she washes his torso, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling at the way his eyes flutter shut as the rag brushes over his nipples, at the way his throat bounces with each hard swallow. “Do you have a lover at home?”

Robb shakes his head erratically, which Dacey thinks has little to do with the question and everything to do with the hand she is resting on his strong, tense thigh. “I would not want to dishonor someone.”

“I will never understand why men seem to think the only honor a woman has is between her legs.” 

“No,” he objects, his voice suddenly strong, “I don't think that. Dacey, you...You saved my life today. All of the men around me, none of them did what you did, risked themselves that way. You have more honor than any man I've ever met.” His hand rises, clumsily touching the bruise on Dacey's jaw, the result of a mailed fist connecting solidly with her face. “I wish I was half as brave as you.”

She lifts her hand, wrapping her fingers loosely around his wrist. Softly but firmly, she warns, “Don't make me into someone I'm not or you'll find yourself very disappointed.”

Robb nods, chastened, drawing his hand back as he murmurs some sort of apology. Guilt licks at her, more for stinging a green boy than offending her king, and Dacey sighs, moving forward until she is kneeling between his splayed legs. She can feel his cock, hard as Valyrian steel, brushing the front of her leg as he straightens his back; though she can still see nervousness in his eyes, Dacey thinks he looks older as she braces her hands on the edge of the tub behind his back.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“To make certain you were fine.”

“You already knew I was.” She rests her forehead against his, nudging his head back a bit so he is looking up at her. “Did you come here to fuck me?”

“No,” he instantly objects even as he arches his neck further, trying to raise his mouth closer to hers. “I just wanted to say thank you, to show you how much you are appreciated.”

Dacey drops slightly, brushing her lips against his, pulling away before it can deepen; Robb's fingers bite into the soft flesh of her thighs, and Dacey resists the urge to pull his hand between her legs and see to the tension which is building there. She gasps as Robb buries his face between her breasts, his tongue curling around her nipple; she sinks her fingers into his hair, holding him against her for a moment before wrenching him back with a groan.

“What's wrong?” Robb asks, genuine confusion painted on his handsome face. “Was I too rough? I did not mean to be, my lady - “

Dacey cups his face, silencing him with a slow, deep kiss; he lets her direct the pace of the kiss, and she moans at how malleable he is, how eager to please. Breaking the kiss, she sighs, “Oh, sweet boy. The things I could teach you...”

Before Robb can reply, his desire blatant on his face, the flap to the tent opens, and Dacey feels as if she has been pushed into the snow as Maege Mormont freezes. Dacey can only imagine the picture they present: the King in the North red-faced with his hands squeezing his guard's ass, his battered guard kneeling above him, her teats slick with his spit, face raw from the rasp of his beard. If Dacey is stunned, Robb appears horrified, and it is his discomfort which makes Dacey move, climbing out of the tub and grabbing a linen to cover herself.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Maege Mormont chokes out, keeping her eyes downcast as Robb accepts a linen from Dacey; the material provides me a bit of modesty, but it does little to hide his hard cock. “I was not aware you were here. By your leave?”

“Yes, Lady Mormont.”

Dacey puts on fresh clothing with her marred back facing Robb, feeling as if she is fourteen again and her mother has discovered her with the steward's son; when she turns, he is wearing his soiled clothes again, his cloak pulled around his body to shield his erection. She tries to think of the right words to say – words of comfort, words of explanation – but Dacey has never been good with words; she is a woman of action, and her actions have been unbelievably stupid tonight.

“Thank you for your company this evening, Your Grace,” she finally says, emphasizing his title, a reminder that they are no longer at play.

Sadness shadows Robb's face before he nods, King in the North once again. “I shall send the maester around to see to your back. We do not want to risk infection.”

It is not the way either of them wishes to end the evening, but want has no place in war, so Dacey agrees, allows the old man with cold hands to apply a salve to her back and bind it with silk. Her mother says nothing more than, “You are smarter than this,” and Dacey knows it is true; smart women do not fuck their kings, especially when their kings are green boys who have never even had a woman and are likely to confuse fucking with love. 

She cannot fuck Robb Stark.

But, Gods, does she want to.


End file.
